Chapter 31
Gemma
Saint gives me more time than I think he would. True, he basically camps out in front of the bathroom door this morning, but I honestly expect him to kick it in, so the fact that he doesn't is appreciated.
He's gone for hours, but then, out of nowhere, I hear his footsteps.
Heavy and booted.
Not his current suit and dress shoe sound.
I steel myself.
I'm in bed. I haven't moved much since this morning. It's not that I'm depressed. Well, maybe a bit, but not like how I was before Alexei's murder.
No, I'm tired.
My body is exhausted from the never-ending whirling in my mind.
No matter what I do, I can't stop thinking, and it is taking a toll.
Before, there's always been a crisis to snap me out of the spiral. Now, I need to live with the thoughts, work through them, and I'm finding it exhausting.
Especially when I worry that my conclusion will be the wrong one, and that they will destroy the little bit of peace I've managed to eke out.
The door opens, slowly. I look up from my mountain of pillows. Saint stands there, highlighted by the golden hues of the setting sun.
He looks like some sort of avenging angel dressed all in black with bloody knuckles and a bruised face.
"What happened?" I scramble to sit up. "Are you hurt?" My eyes assess the damage.
"I'm fine." He comes in and closes the door. "I went to see Adrian."
My stomach drops. I haven't thought of my brothers in weeks. I push those thoughts deep inside a box, and I'm not sure if I'm ready to open them yet. "Why?" I ask, mouth dry.
"To beat the shit out of him."
I stare, unsure I hear him correctly. "You—huh?" I stand there, in a long silk nightgown, with my mouth open, looking ridiculous. But I'm certain I don't process that correctly. "Can you repeat that?"
Saint rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck.
"I punched him. Multiple times. Told him he's a piece of shit for what he did to you.
" He sits on the edge of the bed, but he doesn't look at me.
"He fought back, obviously," he chuckles good-naturedly, and I kind of wonder if I'm hallucinating.
"Fucker was faster than I expected. Got a few hits in, but I made my point. "
"Saint—"
He gets up, pacing slightly.
"He should be telling you this, but he probably won't because he's a fucker, but he can't un-disown you. Politics. The captains would see it as weakness." He finally looks at me. "But he said he's sorry. That he'll reach out. Privately. That Sera and Angelo miss you."
Tears burn my eyes. "He said that?" I almost can't believe it. Not from Adrian. Luc, yes, but not Adrian. He never apologizes. Even when we were children. So, it's a big deal, even if it's not much.
"He's having twins. Girls. It made him think about you. About what he did." Saint's voice is rough. "He said he can't imagine doing to them what we did to you."
I don't know what to say. A weight presses down on my chest, and I try not to cry.
He takes my hand in his own, and I try not to melt into him, but I can't stop myself from needing the feeling of his skin on my own. "I was wrong, Gemma. About everything."
"Saint—" I hold my breath. I don't want to have hope, lest it be squashed.
"No. Let me say this." He squeezes my hand. "You said I can't give you equality. That I'll always choose the family over you. That I love the idea of you but not the actual person." He meets my eyes, and the deep green of his makes my stomach flip. "You were right. About all of it."
"I was angry," I try to explain. "We were both—"
"You were honest." He pulls me closer. I can feel his hard muscles through the silk of my dress. "And I've been thinking. About what you said. About what you need. And I was full of shit."
"What?" I feel like a fish out of water. It's a cliché, but an apt metaphor. "What are you saying?"
"I can give you power. Real power. I'm Don, which means I can do whatever the fuck I want.
I've made in-roads with the Russian, as much as can be expected, and I got us an equal seat at the table with your brother, and the other families.
" He cups my face. "My cousins are great.
Fuck, Marcello is much more than I expected, but they can't do what I've done, and the captains know that.
So, tell me. What do you want? Really want.
And I'll give it to you." He leans down, taking my lips in his own.
I sigh loudly, wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing myself harder against his body.
We part. "I'll give you fucking anything."
I search his face. Looking for the catch. The condition. The control.
There isn't one.
He's serious, completely serious.
And it's overwhelming.
This is power. Maybe not the kind one thinks of traditionally, but it is power.
More than most get.
I have power over the head of the Marini family.
And in this moment, I realize I don't want anything else than the knowledge that I'm not expendable.
"I don't know if I want power," I say quietly, scared. Not of Saint, but of his reaction. "Not in the family. Not the way you mean."
He goes still. "Seriously?"
I swallow.
"I'm a good strategist. I proved that. But Saint—" My voice breaks.
"I got Igor killed. My plan helped Artem murder a room full of people.
And I—" Tears are falling now, and I can't stop them.
"I can't stomach it. The violence. The casualties.
The good people who end up dead because of games we play. I'm not able to compartmentalize that."
"Gemma—"
"I killed Alexei. And in the moment…" I take a shaky breath.
"I felt powerful. Alive. But afterward?" I shake my head.
"I felt sick. Not because he didn't deserve it, but because I realized—I'm good at violence.
Too good. And if I stay in this world, really stay in it, I'll become something I don't want to be.
" I release a shaky breath. "I'll become my fucking mother. "
He's quiet, staring at me, and I suspect he's processing my words.
"What do you want?" he asks. "If not this. Then what?"
"I want autonomy." The word feels right.
"I want to be equal with you. Not in the family.
We matter, not the business. I want to go back to school—get my MBA and learn how to actually run things.
" I take a breath. "And I want to help with the legitimate businesses.
The real estate. The investments. The legal operations.
I want to use my brain, but I'm not interested in being used to hurt people. "
He stares at me, his eyes wide, and his mouth slightly dropped. He's shocked.
"You want to go back to school?"
"Yes. Is that—" I stop. "Is that okay?"
"Okay?" He laughs. Broken. Relieved. "Gemma, I thought you wanted to be at the table. Making moves. Running operations. I thought—" He stops. "I thought I was going to have to spend every fucking day of my life worried about you." He runs a hand through his hair. "More than I already fucking am."
I move closer. "I'm good at strategy. At seeing patterns.
At manipulating systems. But I don't want to use those skills to hurt people.
I want to use them to build things. Grow things.
Create things that last." I reach up, cupping his cheek.
I can feel the stubble under my fingertips, and it grounds me.
"I love you Saint. You made me love you, but I want to love myself too.
I want us to figure out how to do this marriage thing, together. Not with you being Lord of the Manor."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"The legitimate businesses are a mess," he finally says. "Antonio focused on the family stuff. The illegal operations. The legit side is profitable but disorganized. My father was good at that stuff, and when he died, it went to shit. We could do better. Make more. Expand properly."
"Exactly." I'm getting excited now. "We have so much potential. Real estate holdings that aren't being maximized. Investments that could be diversified. Legitimate revenue streams that could eclipse the illegal ones if managed correctly."
"You've been thinking about this."
"I've been thinking about a lot of things." I take his bruised hand. "I don't want to be your second. Or your strategist. Or your weapon. I want to be your wife. Whatever that means. And I want my own thing. Something that's mine. Where I have control. Autonomy. But it doesn't have to be separate."
"Business school," he repeats. Like he's testing the words.
"Yes. Columbia has an executive MBA program. I could start in the fall. It's two years. Part-time. I'd still be here. Still be your wife. But I'd have something that's mine."
He's processing. I can see it. Working through implications. Concerns. Control issues.
"What if I said no?" he asks. "What if I said it's too dangerous? That I need you here?"
"Then we'd have a problem." I meet his eyes.
"Because I need this, Saint. I need to be more than Mrs. Marini.
More than your wife. More than the woman you protect and control and manage.
I'm exhausted by men trading and selling me like I'm a pawn and not a person.
I need this—this autonomy, this choice, this future I'm building for myself. "
"I don't want to control you—"
"I know, but you try anyway. It's your nature." I touch his face. "I need something that's outside your control. Where I have power. Where I'm not asking permission or seeking approval. Where I'm just... me."
Silence. Heavy.
Then: "Okay."
I blink. "Okay?"
"Business school. The legitimate businesses. All of it. Okay." He pulls me into his lap. "You're right. You need your own thing. And I need to stop trying to make you fit into boxes you were never meant for."
"You mean it?"
"Yes. With conditions."
Of course there are conditions. With Saint there always is.
"What conditions?"
"You still have security. Non-negotiable. You're my wife. That makes you a target. So, you have guards. Emmanuel or someone equally competent."
I nod. I've had guards my whole life, and honestly, when left to my own devices, I haven't exactly been trustworthy. "Okay. What else?"
"You tell me where you're going. Not asking permission. Just informing. So, I don't lose my mind worrying."
"Reasonable."
"And—" He struggles with this one. "No fucking going off on your own. No more games, Gemma." He smiles at me. It's sexy and dangerous, and I can feel wetness gathering between my thighs. "Well, some games, but the ones we both like."
My nipples harden.
"I can do that." I kiss him softly. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For listening. For trying. For giving me this." I rest my forehead against his. "I know it's hard for you. To let go. To give me space. But it means everything."
"I'm still going to fuck it up. Probably a lot."
"I know. And I'm still going to get angry and push back and fight with you." I smile. "But we'll figure it out. Together."
"Together," he repeats.
Then he kisses me. Really kisses me. Not desperate. Not urgent. Slow and explorative.
When we break apart, I'm crying again. But different tears. Relief. Hope. Love.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For going to Alexei. For betraying you. For all of it."
"I'm sorry too. For giving you to Adrian. For not protecting you. For trying to control you instead of loving you." His voice cracks. "I love you, Gemma. And I'm going to try to be better. To love you better."
"I love you too." I kiss him again. "Even when you're impossible. Even when you drive me crazy. Even when—"
He cuts me off with another kiss. Deeper this time.
His hands are in my hair. On my skin. Gentle. Reverent.
Not taking. Asking.
I respond. Show him I want this. Want him.
We move to the bed. Clothes coming off. Slowly. No rush.
"Are you sure?" he asks. "We don't have to—"
"I'm sure." I pull him down to me. "I want this. I want you."
He makes love to me. That's the only way to describe it.
Not fucking. Not desperate sex. Not confirming we're alive.
Love. Tender. Sweet. Intimate.
He touches me like I'm precious. Like I matter. Like I'm more than just his wife or his weapon or his anything.
Like I'm Gemma. And that's enough.
When we're done, we lie tangled together. Sweaty. Satisfied. At peace.
"Business school," he says. "My wife is going to business school."
"Your wife is getting her MBA."
"My brilliant, strategic, dangerous wife is getting her MBA." He kisses my shoulder. "And running legitimate businesses."
"And you're okay with this? Really okay?"
"I'm terrified." He's honest. "But yes. I'm okay with it. Because it's what you want. And making you happy is more important than controlling you."
"That might be the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."
"I'm full of surprises."
We lie there in comfortable silence.
"Thank you," I say again. "For punching Adrian."
"It was my pleasure. Literally. I've been wanting to kick his ass since that first dinner."
I laugh. "I thought that life was over after that dinner."
He stiffens, just slightly. "I shouldn't—"
I know what he's thinking, and I sit up slightly. "Don't," I say. "We were both forced into things we aren't responsible for. We figured it out, and now, all we can do is move forward."
"Don't absolve me."
I shake my head. "I'm not," I say. "I simply don't blame you. I love you Saint. It's probably fucking crazy that we've come this far, but it is what it is, and I don't want to examine it too hard."
I don't see the point. Saint was forced by Antonio to bed and wed me, and my family is responsible for allowing it.
But Saint and I are responsible for what happened after, especially now, and I don't want to dwell on it.
"I'm still going to be possessive. And protective. And probably controlling sometimes," Saint says. "I'm not perfect."
"I know. And I'm still going to fight you. And push back. And demand my space. I'm not perfect."
He laughs, holding me tightly.
"Sounds exhausting."
"Sounds fun."
He laughs. Really laughs. "Yeah. It does."
I snuggle closer. Safe. Loved. Free.
Not because he's letting me be free. But because I'm choosing to stay while being free.
That's the difference.
That's everything.